A poppy lapse

Is it my imagination, or have people gotten very silly about poppies in the last decade?

Over the past decade in particular, it seems we have some sort of poppy kerfuffle every Remembrance Day.

One year it was the Battle of the White Poppies versus the Red Poppies. Wearers of the white poppies thought red poppies glorified war, and red-poppy-wearers thought white poppy proponents were either presumptuous or unpatriotic.

Another year, we had the using-flags-to-anchor-your-poppy controversy, in which legionnaires declared that poppies were "sacred" and it was improper to fix them with anything other than the flimsy pins they come with.

This year, it's - heaven help us - Don Cherry. For those of you who are not Canadian and/or do not view hockey as the best thing created, Don Cherry is a long-time hockey-coach-cum-commentator, renowned for his unbelievably high collars, eye-watering suits, and loud, unvarnished pronouncements. This past weekend, he apparently thought the Saturday night hockey game was the ideal platform for airing his view that "you people" who "come here, whatever it is" "should pay a buck for a poppy". Apparently Cherry spotted some poppy-less people, who he believed to be immigrants. Let's see, how? They were darker-skinned than he is? They were dressed differently than he is? (No, forget that second one; we're all dressed differently than he is.)

Anyway, he's apparently offended by non-poppy-wearing newcomers, given that they're now living in the land of "milk and honey", courtesy of the sacrifice of Canadian soldiers.

Let's leave aside the horrors that many new Canadians have escaped, and the sacrifices they themselves have made. If the wearing of the poppy is mandatory, as Cherry believes - as I write this, he's just defiantly said that all Canadians should wear a poppy - doesn't that negate the very freedoms for which so many died?

I wear a red poppy, secured with a decorative pin. That's my choice. My fellow Canadians, darn it, have the right to wear a red poppy, a white poppy, a poppy with a pin, a poppy secured with flag pin, or no poppy at all.

That's their choice, Mr. Cherry. You have no right to bully them into doing things your way.

Now, I gather that Don Cherry has finally been fired. I'm not sure that this will solve anything.

I do worry that his comments will give courage to others, who will make life in this land of milk and honey less sweet for those who have committed the sin of daring not to be born here.

Maybe he should have asked Lily first

The only reason we chose our service provider over the other one available in Victoria was because it offers Boston's PBS station WGBH as the "time shift" option.  (The other service offers Detroit's WTVS, which isn't as execrable as Watertown's WPBS, but is still pretty bad.)

Last night, I was yet again not disappointed.  I'd left the television on between shows, and hadn't muted it as is my usual practice.  A concert exerpt came up and as the music progressed, I found myself asking the usual questions when I'm about to acquire a *new favourite:  What is this? and Who are these guys? 

* I say "new", but, as has been demonstrated in the past, I'm always a few years behind.

The following video is not the clip I saw last night, but it's the best version I can find, which comes closest to what I heard.  I love the driving drums and the backing vocals.



The lyrics are sadder than you'd think.

I'm leaving this place behind
And I'm heading out on the road tonight.
I'm off for the hinterlands
Way up north where the tall trees stand.

Before I commence my ride
I'm asking Lily to be my bride.
I know there's another man
But he ain't gonna delay my plans.

I know she's gonna be my wife,
Gonna fall in love, I'm gonna live my life with her.
You know I bet he's not so tough.
Ain't afraid of him 'cause I'm a fool for love.

I've come far to find Big Jim,
Well, here I am and I guess you're him.
I see how you got your name,
You're tall as hell, and broad as a train.

They say you are a hard-broiled man
And the baddest guy in the whole wide land.
Well, I'm not afraid to fight,
Let's step outside and I'll show you why

I'm humming like a revved-up truck
Never mind the odds, I'm gonna try my luck with her.
Just tell me when you've had enough.
I'm dangerous 'cause I'm a fool for love.

You know you don't hit half bad
For my love I will lay you on the ground tonight.
Just wait until I catch my breath,
Gonna send you off to an early death.

I lie in the drifting snow,
Bleeding out as it covers me up.
If Spring comes before I'm found,
Just throw my bones in a hole in the ground

I lost friends along my way
I knew I'd meet them eventually,
No, I'm not afraid to die,
Just mad I left Big Jim alive.

I know I should've never looked back,
But you ain't gonna win a woman's heart like that.
I never should've called his bluff,
I was born to lose cause I'm a fool for love.

I stare into the endless sky,
And I saw a tale of my life go by.
I drift into the great unknown;
I really don't know where I'm going.

I've been wondering if all the things I've seen were ever real

My day-to-day life has always been a tad on the surreal side -- not particularly fascinating, just surreal.  Bits of last week were just odd.

We were heading out to yet another parent/teacher conference in Nepean.  Younger daughter's teachers have proposed a part-time arrangement for next year which would involve some counselling, life skills practice, and  job experience.

I've been a bit worried of late about ambushing younger daughter with plans for her future -  English being her second language (we've never been quite sure what her first language is), it has never been easy to gauge just how much she has understood and, trickier still, just how she has understood it.

Her acquisition of a cell phone last year has opened a whole new world of communication.  It turns out she's boffo at texting.  In addition, during the past few months, we've turned to typing up letters on Word, leaving a sheet of paper on her bed.  She tends to respond by Word as well, attaching it to a blank email with titles such as "My Answer to Mom".

She started initiating notes - pretty well always because she was mad as hell about something:  "My Cross Letter to Dad", for example.  It can be painful being at the receiving end of her fury, but there's the mitigating aspect of relief that she has an outlet after years of what must have been bewildered rage and frustration.  Now, finally, she can indicate to us why she's so angry.

I swallow back the injustice of her accusations, and respond with every bit of compassion I can muster.  Missives buy you the time to do that, and I must say that after all those years of collecting books in the Gentle Art of Verbal Self-Defense series by the late Suzette Haden Elgin, I now have opportunities to practise looking for the bait, ignoring it, and responding to the feeling instead.

Anyway, this week I wrote a letter to leave on younger daughter's bed, briefly outlining what her teachers are suggesting for next year -- translating from the edu-speak that teacher use with parents and older students.

On the bus out to the school, the road wound by the Ottawa River on a brilliantly sunny and cold day.  I've said this before, but I've seen the surface of the river in so many shades of colour:  black, brown, khaki, silver, white, pewter, and any blue hue you can imagine.  I couldn't place the colour this time, it was a strange misty kind of light brown laced with blue.

I realized it was the shade of my mother's eyes:  hazel.



This song was recorded in 1996, the year younger daughter was born. A few days ago, I learned that Sheryl Crow wrote it about Paul Hester, the drummer of one of my favourite bands, Crowded House. Sheryl Crow used to open for Crowded House, and knew and liked Hester, who suddenly quit Crowded House mid-tour, telling lead singer Neil Finn: "Every day is a winding road, mate." (It's Neil Finn singing back-up vocals in "Every Day is a Winding Road".)

Hester didn't have a daughter named Easter; her name was Sunday. Sadly, Hester committed suicide in 2005.

I've always been lifted by the hopeful, driving chorus, and haunted by the lines:  "I just wonder why I feel so old; why I'm a stranger in my own life"; and "I've been wondering if all the things I've seen were ever real -- were ever really happening…"

Another close call

A friend of mine had a birthday the other day.  Facebook notified me with the tiny little birthday cake icon in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, and since the fellow in question is a talented poet (no, seriously, he's good -- he's been published), I quickly dashed off a post:  "Happy birthday...."  No.  That needs a little something extra. "Happy birthday, Poetry Man!"

Wait a minute.  Isn't there a song called Poetry Man? The internet being what it is, I quickly found the song and a nice accompanying video.  I could just attach that to my message. However, something checked me.

I listened to the song, which I only know vaguely:

Now, after the first few lines, I was thinking:  Well, thank goodness I checked before sending this!
After checking for the lyrics online, I was even more grateful:

You make me laugh
Cause your eyes they light the night
They look right through me
You bashful boy
You're hiding something sweet
Please give it to me yeah, to me
Talk to me some more
You don't have to go
You're the poetry man
You make things all rhyme
You are a genie
All I ask for is your smile
Each time I rub the lamp
When I am with you
I have a giggling teen-age crush
Then I'm a sultry vamp
So once again
It's time to say so long
And so recall the cull of life
You're going home now
Home's that place somewhere you go each day
To see your wife 

Well, yikes.  1) Not really an accurate description of this fella, who is a charming Southern-gentleman type who is not bashful; 2) I've never harboured any feelings beyond friendship for this guy, who would be mystified (and probably horrified) if I sent this rather suggestive tune his way; 3) he separated from his wife over a year ago, who happens to be an old school friend.

The moral of this story:  If you've got the internet at your fingertips, take those few extra seconds to check before you send anything.  I still wished a very happy birthday to the poetry man, but left it at that.  The guy's got enough problems.  Maybe he's getting some poems out of them.

I did spend a few more minutes finding out about Phoebe Snow because all I really remembered about her were her distinctive looks and voice.  I didn't know she had a daughter born with brain damage who died a few years before Snow herself did, and that she largely gave up hopes of advancing her career because she insisted on caring for her child herself.  And I didn't know that "Poetry Man" was her biggest hit.  I actually prefer this wistful number:


I wish I was a willow
And I could sway to the music in the wind
And I wish I was a lover
I wouldn't need my costumes and pretend
I wish I was a mountain
I'd pass boldly through the clouds and never end
I wish I was a soft refrain
When the lights were out I'd play
And be your friend
I strut and fret my hour upon the stage
The hour is up
I have to run and hide my rage
I'm lost again
I think I'm really scared
I won't be back at all this time
And have my deepest secrets shared

I'd like to be a willow
A lover, a mountain or a soft refrain
But I'd hate to be a grown-up
And have to try to bear my life in pain

Personally, I think anyone who made the choices that Phoebe Snow made and who could also reference the Marx Brothers and Shakespeare in the same song is the highest definition of "grown-up" there is.  She looked and sounded like one too.